The Broccoli Stare-Down

Dinner was a battlefield, as most weeknights were in the Miller household. Tonight's enemy: a small, verdant floret of broccoli on six-year-old Leo’s plate. 'But Mom,' Leo insisted, his eyes wide with genuine alarm, 'it's judging me.' Sarah, his mother, pinched the bridge of her nose. 'Leo, it's a vegetable. It has no eyes, no brain, no capacity for judgment.' Leo leaned in conspiratorially. 'That's what it *wants* you to think. It's pretending to be innocent, but I caught it staring at my soul. It knows about the cookie incident.' Sarah sighed, recalling the covert raid on the pantry an hour earlier. 'Fine,' she conceded, dramatically leaning down to the plate. 'Broccoli, darling, if you could please refrain from psychic evaluation during supper, we'd all appreciate it. Especially Leo, who has much to reflect on regarding the aforementioned cookie incident.' A beat of silence. Leo stared at the broccoli, then at his mom. 'It just blinked,' he whispered. Just then, David, Leo's dad, ambled into the dining room, took one look at his wife negotiating with a cruciferous vegetable, and slowly, silently, backed away, returning to the 'important' task of organizing his sock drawer. Sarah just shrugged at the departing back. 'I think it's just trying to be intimidating now, sweetie. You show it who's boss.'